A Farewell to Mom
by Charles C. Cole
The front doorbell chimed late into the evening. Missy Perrine, in cozy gray sweatpants and matching hoodie, had fallen asleep on the sofa reading a magazine on the latest celebrity gossip. She wasn’t planning on guests.
In a small town in a quiet neighborhood, you open the door no matter what, without hesitation, without looking out the window to make an informed determination: Should I or shouldn’t I? Here, you act first and regret after. It had to be something mundane. She patted her face as if the gesture would somehow make her more alert than she felt, similar to pinching oneself in a dream and just as ineffective.
Weymouth Rodgers, her former boyfriend, in a crisp suit and tie, stood under the yellow glow of the porch light. She’d heard he’d be coming to town for his mother’s funeral. He looked jaundiced, but rested and well preserved, and that rankled her.
Freed from the bonds of civil pleasantries, “Why didn’t you just let yourself in?” she asked.
“I figured you’d change the locks after we broke up.”
“A purebred ragdoll like you is no threat. Still haven’t thrown a punch, am I right?”
“Biding my time for the perfect male-outrage moment,” he insisted. “They’ll never see it coming.”
“That’ll be a sight. Hope I’m there. I earned the privilege.” Awkward dense silence as the ex-lovers mentally reviewed their past relationship and rocky breakup. “Anyway, I had a feeling you’d show up.”
“Yeah?” asked Weymouth, cautiously.
“Sure: tonight’s a full moon. Your type can’t help themselves.”
He smiled a small sad smile and explained: “I’m in town for my mom.”
“Funny, I was here for your mom in the months when she was in pain and struggling, dealing with doctors’ appointments and chemotherapy. And making reluctant peace with her approaching death. Where were you then? I forget.”
“Across the country making her proud,” answered Weymouth, with no hint of guilt, “while bracing for the inevitable. The firm couldn’t afford an extended leave of absence, but they were not going to deny the new junior partner the ritual of a touching eulogy to a parent. At Dunden, Dunden and Loeffler, we pride ourselves on being family-centric. You can even work with our public affairs officer on a prepared commentary that hits all the right notes. ’If a relationship ends in er, it’s never a both-er.’”
“Weymouth, are you here to thank me? If so, just say it and don’t draw it out. It’s late.”
“It goes without saying, but, actually, I was wondering if you’d share a few words at the funeral. You were like a daughter to her.”
“What about the notarized grieving-child manifesto care of D. D. and L.?”
“They used nice words, even quoted a pretty poem, but I found the original source material... lacking. Her son, it’s been stated, has obviously never been in touch with his emotions. And I think that shines through in large gatherings.”
“You want me to do the eulogy?!” asked Missy, shocked.
“I’ll introduce myself, then introduce you, you do your part, and I conclude by reading the poem. You always said I had a voice for radio. The piece is really good, moving even for me. I think Mom would have liked it. But, as far as speaking from the heart, while I’m pretty sure I have one, we both know I’m not good accessing it, even for emergencies. Therapy’s helping, but I’m not there yet. Whereas you always had a way of making everyone, from waitresses to store clerks, feel like they were your long-lost twin.”
“Poor Weymouth! And she was such a lovely, compassionate woman. Are you sure there wasn’t a mix-up, that she didn’t somehow bring home the wrong baby from the hospital?”
“I am my father’s father: I believe in working long hours and taking care of my family’s financial needs, in this case funeral expenses, from somewhere outside the house, preferably from out-of-state or even overseas.”
“I’ll do it,” she said quickly, mostly to send him on his way, though she definitely had a soft spot for his mother.
The funeral was well attended, mostly retirees. The priest, Father Thomas Schaab, was new to him. He warned Weymouth that some parishioners never missed a service, even for a stranger, so not to get in his head if he didn’t recognize everyone. In a sense, though their hearts were sincere aspects of God’s love, this was cathartic performance art, a temporary emotional cleansing.
A trio of white-headed women toward the front, whom Weymouth couldn’t place, cried heavily the whole time, shoulders shaking and tissues crumpled into tight wads in their small hands. After Weymouth introduced Missy, he returned to his pew to give her the full spotlight. One of the ladies behind him grabbed his right hand as he was sitting and squeezed hard.
When he’d broken free, Weymouth put both his hands protectively in his lap and leaned his head forward, more to curl himself into a protective ball than for reverential effect. Still, a hand found him, started patting his shoulder, invading his privacy with communal consoling. He slid further forward to escape, closed his eyes and kneeled, a position he hadn’t considered for over ten years. To his knowledge, his mother had never missed a Sunday mass. After she’d retired from nursing and quit volunteering at the library, this place had remained her one constant.
Someone tapped his shoulder. Father Thomas whispered, “You’re up. You got this.”
Weymouth removed his glasses before reading the poem; he didn’t want any accidental eye contact to distract him, to break his stride. His voice sounded loud to him as it boomed through the speakers, like when someone who’s hard of hearing overcompensates.
Afterwards, everyone filed by him in a long procession, slowly, the concluding rite, touching him and wishing him well and sharing his pain. But he held it together. Afterward, alone in his rental car, he wept as he hadn’t in many years.
Copyright © 2021 by Charles C. Cole
